


Hiratsuka fails to top water

by brightblackbird



Category: Rookies - Morita Masanori & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Canon - Manga, Consentacles, M/M, Shapeshifting, Slime, Tentacles, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-15 19:56:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11238075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brightblackbird/pseuds/brightblackbird
Summary: When in the course of human events it turns out that a man's best friend is actually some kind of weird goo alien, that man is honor-bound to stick his dick in goo.





	Hiratsuka fails to top water

Normally if someone asked, "hey, can I crawl up your ass?" Hiratsuka wouldn't take it all that serious.

Except, when it's Imaoka blinking up at him curiously, with some story about he's not really all that human, so it'll be easy, and he's just always wondered how humans work, is all, it all starts sounding a lot more possible.

Imaoka doesn't open with "can I crawl up your ass?" but that's about what it boils down to. He's not sure his human disguise is complete without the inside parts. And some other parts too. And also he's just curious.

And when Imaoka holds up a kind of tentacle arm, melting into some watery shape that shouldn't even HAVE a shape, very matter-of-fact, like it's just never come up before—well, what kind of guy looks at some probably new-to-this-planet slime junk and _doesn't_ want to find out what it's like sticking his dick in it?

Turns out it's kind of like dropping yourself into a pool all at once, just with your ass open at the same time. He's never thought about how damn hot he's gotta be on the inside, but hell if he can't feel it now against the slimy goo sliding up cool along his back and twining cooler around his thigh and pressing up _cold_ against his insides. His tailbone pops as he stretches out for the weird soft _thing_ flowing into him—not _for_ it, not on purpose, not like he needs this to keep going. It stops for a few seconds and he can feel Imaoka's quiet horror in a weird gut kind of way. He draws his back up, impatient for it to start again, and squirms just to show his back's still fine.

There isn't really any Imaoka left sitting in front of him, just a stray sock—how the fuck did he leave _one_ sock?—and a shirt, and a pair of pants, folded semi-neatly. For a few moments the slimy stuff holds still enough for Hiratsuka to wonder, a little dazed, if this is why the jackass never cares how cold it gets outside, and then the tentacle thing on his back makes a stroking kind of movement upwards.

"Hey!" It comes out ragged and a little panicky, which is not how he feels, at all, but at least it makes that _gentle_ shit stop. "No fuckin' face shit. No neck shit either. You know how _that_ works."

The tentacle droops, and so does the rest of Imaoka. Inside him. Not weird at all.

"Shoulders're okay," he adds gruffly, and it holds still for a couple of seconds, thinking.

The pauses—those are definitely Imaoka, the weird little breaks where he hesitates, not quite sure where to move next. So he calms down, lets the watery blob slip inside him while it keeps pulsing gently at his back, rubbing soft and not entirely wet against the sore spots around his shoulders. Lot more of those than he's ever noticed before, and he can't help groaning when they relax. It probes the tip of his cock with a horrible stinging thrill for just a second, but it retreats before Hiratsuka's even done flinching, and goes back to the careful soothing pressure around the head—not exactly like sticking your dick under a faucet, but not anything like your hand either.

His brain is struggling to figure out what's going on, jumping from _ocean_ to _bath_ to _pool_ over and over again like it's going to be one of those things eventually if it just looks at things the right way. It's not any of them, it's like being in the rain except the rain doesn't want to slide off him, like a bathtub full of cold water but not uncomfortable—he's propped on his elbows, trying desperately to keep his back and ass off the bed as his arms get weaker and weaker, trying just as hard not to feel completely fucking undone and dominated because the second he lets himself feel that, Imaoka's going to fucking know it.

Except there's slime up his ass and pulsing around his balls, playing with them like some kind of party favor—playing with _him_ like he's some kind of new toy, some kind of weird Earth experiment spreading its legs out and teased to the breaking point, until he drops onto the bed and admits he's forgotten all about doing the fucking here, admits he's fine with letting this stupid cool slime fill him up.

Jesus fuck, he's never felt so disposable.

He sinks onto the bed, Imaoka giving way underneath him, a little startled but still spread out thin between him and the blankets, and feels completely empty except for the almost-cold tentacle filling him up. Some part of his best friend, whose face he can't even see, lifting him a little and then settling him down gently, thighs spread out obediently on their own. A soft pressure tilts his knee and he lets his leg give up the fight and relax until Imaoka gets it nudged into the right position.

There's a moist pressure on his shoulders, pushing into the tense spots in his neck, and he can feel how much Imaoka doesn't like there being anything sore or hurting him and snot starts leaking out of his nose and he gives up. He gives up pretending he wants to be thrusting and pushing and lets Imaoka rub his arms and his back and his balls all at once. He lets himself get fucked and fondled and taken care of, and he doesn't know how long his brain's been shut off when Imaoka decides he's calm enough to move on and reaches a little further into him.

There's a little shiver of stupid wordless happiness—he can't even tell anymore if it's his or Imaoka's, they're both shuddering together—and his brain melts into a rush of heat strong enough to make his hips jerk up into the gentle wetness holding them still. When he realizes there's nothing left around him but air he thinks, for a few panicked seconds, he came hot enough to make Imaoka evaporate—but there's a pair of hands on his face. Warm hands wiping it dry, a little shaky and doing less and less good as they go.

"You're crying," Imaoka says anxiously, and his stupid concerned face swims into view.

"Fuck you," he manages, and he sobs into Imaoka's lap for a minute and fake sobs for a few more until he's sure Imaoka feels suitably guilty for making him feel like some normal unimportant loser. Even if it was just for a second. All loved and shit. And _grateful_. Like it's even a fraction of what he deserves.

When he relents and lifts his head Imaoka offers his shirt this time.

"You were so upset," he says, as Hiratsuka blows his nose right into the center. "I thought I got all the spots where you weren't happy. Where'd I miss?"

"Eat shit."

Imaoka pats his head soothingly. "I don't want to. Get under the covers, humans get sleepy when they cry."

"How'm I supposed to be in charge if I can't even tell where your face is?" The bed's drier than expected. Just one wet spot. Finally managing to muster up a glare, he turns its full force onto Imaoka, ready to tell him exactly where he can stick his stupid wet spot.

The glare falters and dies.

"Where's your fucking ear?!"

Imaoka puts a hand up to the empty space, looking puzzled. For a second Hiratsuka wonders where you go to register your dick as a potentially deadly weapon, and then Imaoka looks down at the bed. He reaches into the wet spot, and a second later they're both looking at a perfectly dry bed.

Imaoka winces and puts a hand back to the no-longer-empty space.

"You got jizz in it."

He leans his head to the side, hair spilling over his face, and taps experimentally on the upward-facing temple.

"This is not how I'm spending the rest of my evening."

"Some of it might be mine," Imaoka adds. "I'm not really sure what my parts were doing at the end."

"Good night," Hiratsuka says, with as much dignity as he can muster. "And go to hell."

"No."

He ignores that pathetic attempt at getting in the last word and rolls over, and when Imaoka slides in next to him, still warm and solid, he allows him the privilege. Just because it probably sucks a whole bunch having to get jizz out of your ear.

"I think I can make my own version now," Imaoka says, arms wrapped around him and using the fact that they're lying down to actually rest his chin on Hiratsuka's shoulder. "You can show me which spots I missed."

"Mmn."

"Hiracchi."

"I'm asleep. Put a shirt on."

"You blew your nose on my shirt."

"I was trying to blow it on _you_."

"The shirt isn't me. It's cotton."

"I'm worth a silk fucking shirt at least."

"I don't have any silk shirts," Imaoka says, thoughtfully. "I could try turning into one. But you'd have to be the one wearing me."

"Now you want me to freeze to death."

"No." Something slips underneath him, millimeters thin between him and the bed, and a left tentacle comes to rest on his stomach next to a right hand. "I want you to be warm. And happy."

Well.

Just as long as they were agreed on that.


End file.
